


Just Desserts

by natlet



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Gen, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody brings cookies to Oz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Desserts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lisacali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisacali/gifts).



> Some silly holiday fic for Oz Magi.

On Monday, there's a plate of cookies on the counter in the staff room, between the aging Mr. Coffee and the mismatched collection of mugs set out to dry.

McManus eyes the cookies warily. Chocolate chip, looks like, golden-brown and stacked high on a plate that, from what he can see of it, could be something straight out of his mom's china cabinet. It's the second week of December, just the right time for spontaneous acts of charity, for plates of home-made cookies appearing out of thin air. The cookies look warm and they smell absolutely amazing, but McManus folds his arms across his chest and frowns at them like they did something wrong.

Nobody brings cookies to Oz.

They must be for the staff meeting later, he decides. Or someone's storing them for some later use. They look like they haven't been touched, after all, not a single crumb out of place.

If there's some gone at lunch time, he decides, they'll be fair game.

*

At lunch, some of the cookies are gone; in fact, all of them are gone, vanished, china plate and all.

McManus stares sadly at the place where they'd sat as he eats his sandwich, and wonders if anyone would have noticed if he'd taken just one.

*

The pie appears on Tuesday.

An apple pie; baked to perfection, just a hint of golden insides through the latticed crust. It smells like cinnamon and falling leaves and every October he's ever known. McManus tightens his grip on his styrofoam cup of coffee from the gas station down the street. There's a sharp knife and a pie server laid out neatly on the counter. His mouth waters.

McManus sets his coffee down and stares at the pie. It's beautiful. It's flawless.

It's got to be a trap. There's a hidden camera somewhere, waiting to see who helps themselves to a slice of unauthorized pie. Some new asshole move from Querns, an effort to cut down on administrative expenditures.

He picks up his coffee and turns his back on the pie, and when break time rolls around, he spends it in his office.

*

Wednesday, he's late; blows into the staff room muttering to himself about worthless municipalities and where the fuck is his tax money going anyway, if it's not toward getting the goddamn snow off the roads in December, this is fucking New York after all -

"Oh, Tim," Sister Pete says sadly. "You've missed the gingerbread men." She waves a stumpy brown piece of cookie - a leg, maybe - at him. "Shame. They were fantastic."

He looks around her. There's a glass plate on the counter with a big etched tree and a scattering of crumbs. "Gingerbread men," he says.

She nods. "Better luck tomorrow," she says. She pops the gingerbread man's leg into her mouth, waves at him, and leaves.

Son of a bitch, he thinks.

There's a couple crumbs on the plate that are almost large enough to be called fragments, pieces of cookies. McManus glances over his shoulder, makes sure the room's empty before he reaches out and picks up just one.

It tastes divine.

*

McManus makes it a point to be early on Thursday. Sets his alarm clock ten minutes ahead, hurries in the shower, pushes the speed limit all the way to Oswald, and instead of stopping by his locker to drop off his coat, he heads straight for the staff room. He's hoping for more cookies or another pie or - oh, maybe there'll be fudge - but really, it's a moot point. He's been missing out all week and today, he's damn well going to get his share. Maybe someone else's share, too, he thinks as he rounds the corner and pushes through the door, since someone's been cheerfully devouring his -

The counter's empty.

Well, not empty - Mr. Coffee, mismatched mugs, cardboard container of non-dairy creamer, plastic spoons - but no cookies, no pie, no goddamn fudge. It's stupid to be disappointed; nobody promised him baked goods, there's no constitutional amendment requiring cookies be provided in the workplace - but goddamn. Everybody else got a treat, while he was too busy being polite to recognize a gift for what it was. He feels his shoulders slump.

"Morning, Tim."

"Hey," he says, turning. Murphy's in the doorway, looking hurried; he's tugging at his uniform, adjusting his tie with one hand, balancing what looks suspiciously like a plate of brownies in the other.

A plate of brownies.

McManus stares.

"More fuckin' baked goods," Murphy says. He stomps past McManus, drops the plate on the counter, yanks the plastic wrap off. "My mother's been here a week now," Murphy says; he rolls his eyes in a really exaggerated way, but he's smiling at the same time. " - and God knows I love having her around - " Leans over to rap his knuckles on the false wood-grain of the tabletop. " - but if she keeps this up, none of us are gonna fit into our uniforms by New Years."

McManus barely hears him. He's honed in on the brownies, some kind of early-morning, low-blood-sugar induced tunnel vision, nothing left in his world but that plate, those perfect rectangles of dark chocolatey goodness. "It was you," he says, feeling stupid, because now that he thinks about it of course it was Murphy - who else would it be? He tries to picture Howell with a plate of gingerbread men, and smiles. "It was you all along."

"Well, yeah," Murphy says, with half a grin and that mildly confused look that means he's wondering if McManus is starting to go off the deep end again. He pours coffee into a styrofoam cup, stirs one careful teaspoon of sugar into it. "What, did I need permission or something?"

"No," Tim says. "No, I just - all week I thought that stuff had to be for a meeting or something. You should've told me." It comes out sounding small and bitter and he's not exactly surprised when Murphy laughs at him, but he's always knocked a little off-balance when the mocking undertone he's expecting fails to appear.

"Aww," Murphy says. "Did poor Timmy miss out on the treats?" He opens a drawer, pulls out a napkin, places a brownie on it and hands it over. "There you go. Problem solved."

"Thanks," McManus says. He cradles the paper-wrapped brownie in his hands, grins a little. "Hey, you don't happen to have any more of that pie, do you?"

Murphy grins back. "Sorry, buddy," he says. "Even I didn't get any pie." He waves with the hand not holding his coffee cup. "See you later."

"Yeah," McManus says. "Later." He pours his own coffee and makes his way to Em City, brownie balanced on the rim of the cup. He can smell the chocolate through the napkin, and he decides he can excuse the way his mouth's watering - he's been waiting all week, after all. He's entitled to a little bit of excitement.

His office is dark. Goddamn useless cleaning staff, he thinks, and fumbles along the wall for the switch. He's worked out of this office for years and this should be muscle memory by now, but he misses the switchplate by half an inch; startles himself, tips off-balance, and as the lights flicker on, he watches the brownie falls toward the floor, upended coffee following it.

The mess spreads itself across the tile. McManus stares at it with a dull kind of acceptance, because this is his life. He bends down and pokes at the brownie; it sort of melts under his touch, collapsing soggily into the puddle of coffee it's sucking up like some kind of delicious chocolate sponge. Maybe, McManus thinks, if he hurries, he can get back to the staff room before they're all gone. He stands up, thinking he'll just toss his jacket and his briefcase on the couch for now, run back out there quick -

There's a basket on his desk, red bow on top and everything. McManus can see chocolate chip cookies tucked into it, and gingerbread men, and more brownies, and oh, there _is_ fudge - and next to the basket, there's a pristine, perfect pie.

He knocks on the window, and Murphy doesn't look up, but McManus can see his smile from across the quad.


End file.
